Turtle Rock

It’s not easy growing up an only child with five sisters. How is that possible? I’m glad you asked. You are about to embark on a journey that has been one of the best kept secrets of the 20th century – The Legend of Berry Mountain.

My story begins in 1953. Back up in the woods of Berry Mountain near Wolftown, Virginia where there stands a primitive 2-room log cabin with no electricity, no running water and an outdoor kitchen. That was home for Ohmer and Granny Jackson and their few still-at-home children.

A hulking figure of a man, Ohmer was a logger who did odd jobs on the side such as fence mending, breaking horses and often bartered with the man who owned that cabin they lived in. Additionally, he was the local checkers champion and crowned the Strongest Man in the County at the local county fair one year. In his spare time, he was the best and most elusive moonshiner from here, to DC. Granny, a God-fearing and most loving woman, handled all the domestic chores, which included cooking on a wood stove and washing clothes in a metal tub with a washboard on the porch, weather permitting, of course.

During the early days of September that year, Sugarloaf, their eldest daughter, was visiting from Indiana when suddenly a frantic outbreak occurred. Hearing the distressing sounds from within the outhouse, just a few yards from the cabin, Sugarloaf’s alert younger siblings rushed to her rescue, transporting her to the cabin, upstairs to the bedroom where everyone was shocked to learn she was in labor. Incredulously, she had successfully hidden her pregnancy for the entire nine months. Everything had gone according to the way she had planned until the abrupt intervention by her siblings. Subsequently, I was born that day much to everyone’s surprise and the second born to Sugarloaf.

Granny, not Sugarloaf, was the one who very lovingly attended to my needs for the following two weeks, affectionately calling me Warner, after her own dad. At the end of those two weeks, Sugarloaf wrapped me up in a light blue colored baby blanket and walked me down the mile-long country, dirt road, accompanied by her best friend, where at the base of the mountain, I was handed through a car window, to complete strangers. Nary a word was exchanged between the two parties. Without remorse, my mother turned away, slapping her hands together in an up and down motion as if to say, “that takes care of that!” Only a few feet away stood her best friend, in tears as she, herself, had wanted the baby but just didn’t have the means to care for it.

After nine unproductive years of marriage, the childless couple inside that car there upon whisked me away. We eventually spent our first Christmas in Texas before settling in California, where I was raised in the San Francisco Bay Area as an only child and a well kept family secret.

One of fifteen siblings, my dad swore them all to secrecy before telling them that I was not their natural son. Growing up, I had a hundred cousins who knew and amazingly enough, never said a word to me about it. Looking back at my life, I now see the many red flags that had I paid attention to, would have figured it all out. Hindsight is always 20-20!

One of my earliest memories, occured when I was only three years of age. The three of us spent a few days camping with Auntie Barb and Uncle Fred, another childless couple, next to a stream in the Sierra Mountains. Not really related, Mom and Barb had become close friends while working as telephone operators in San Francisco before she and Dad were married. Back then, there were no designated campgrounds and assigned camping spaces. You just pulled off the road in a place that appealed to you and made camp. What made this experience so memorable was when Uncle Fred and I got into our swimming trunks and he took me to a log that crossed over the stream. As we waded in the water, I remember not only how cold the water was passing around my little legs, but the feeling of the tiny rocks and pebbles under my feet. Lifting me up, he sat me up on the log, casted a fishing line and gave the rod to me. It wasn’t long after that I had hooked my very first Sierra trout. Struggling hard to reel it in, I began to fear it was going to pull me off that log and into the water. Uncle Fred to the rescue! He dashed over to help and instructed me on how to reel it in. “Keep the rod up and the line tight,” he repeated until he reached out and netted it for me.

Mom often left the copy of my birth certificate laying around for me to see, stating that I was born to them in Albemarle County, Virginia. From time to time, they both would share with me the story of when I was born in a car, sometimes it was a taxi. They drove from the navy yard, to the country mountains to visit some friends of theirs whenever dad had weekend liberty. It was a rather long drive that took about three hours from the naval base. They never explained who those friends were or how they came to know them. I suppose that didn’t really matter since it wasn’t likely that we would ever go back to visit.

Years later, as a young teenager, I recalled that camping experience while talking with Mom and Dad as we sat around the kitchen table. In total disbelief, Dad challenged the memory as he didn’t believe anyone could have memories from such an early age. He reasoned that the memory must have originated from some pictures in one of the family photo albums. We had a lot of pictures in family photo albums and Mom had meticulously identified many of them with hand written captions below each photo that they had taken over the years before and after I was born. Oddly enough, not one of her when she was pregnant. I never gave that a thought until many years later. I asked him how he explained my vivid memory of the sensations I experienced. Shaking his head, he insisted that it just wasn’t possible and there was “no way” I could remember that. I now wonder if they ever pondered how much of my very early years I actually remembered.

Throughout my childhood, Mom and Dad would ask me what I wanted for my birthdays or during Christmas time. Perhaps an intrinsic response, but this very lonely little boy always replied that he wanted a brother or sister to no avail, of course.

Ten years after Japan had surrendered, ending WWII in the pacific, I was not quite 4 years old when my dad, a career navy man, received temporary duty orders and transferred to Japan for three years. Mom decided that she and I would accompany him during his extended stay. I grew to love Japan and its friendly people. They were always respectful to me, regardless of my very young age, and I had many young Japanese friends who taught me to speak their language fluently as well as all their customs.

Mom and Dad found an apartment off the base, above a little store that was owned by Papa Son. He and I became good buddies and sometimes I would wander down there in the early morning hours while he was cooking over his open flame habachi pot. He always shared whatever he was preparing with me. If I remember correctly, he gave me my very first sample of sushi which I really liked. Sometimes, on the weekends, he would take me, Mom, Dad, and some of his shipmates by motor boat to a nearby island and leave us for the day on the beach before returning to pick us up before dark. I never wandered very far away and remained within view of Mom and Dad all the time, but I don’t recall ever seeing anyone else on that beach. It’s like we had our own private beach much thanks to Papa Son.

It was in Japan that I started school, attending Cherry Blossom Elementry Catholic School. Sister Mary Elizabeth was my first teacher crush. She had the most beautiful blue eyes and she was always so very kind to me. Dad said that all the nuns there were from Australia. One day I told Mom about her and expressed my curiousity about what was under the hood on her head that covered everything but her face. A day or so later, as I was in line to get on the school bus at the end of the school day, Sister Mary Elizabeth took me aside, away from the other kids and lifted up the wrapping on her head just enough to show me her surprisingly short, blonde hair. Still, she was so pretty to me. I couldn’t understand why she chose such a life instead of one with another man and a family.

Mom and Dad bought me my first bicycle while we lived in Japan. After Dad installed the training wheels on the back, he took me across the street, to the local park. He showed me how to operate the bell on the handlebars as well as the handbrakes if I got going too fast. He told me the training wheels were to prevent me from falling over. We were on a dirt and gravel road when he ran while holding the bike before giving me a light push. Deathly afraid, I was now riding the bike on my own. I remember hearing his voice from behind. “Keep it steady and pedal, he shouted. Paralyzed by my fear, the bike slowly coasted until eventually falling over as I did a face plant into the gravel. Angered because I didn’t follow his instructions, Dad helped me up and brushed me off before picking up the bicycle and taking me home. I cried all the way until Mom cleaned me up and comforted me.

The nuns at the school gave me a farewell party complete with cake and ice cream at the end of our three and one half years in Japan. Years later and much to my surprise, I learned that I was the only one they did that for. More about that in a later post.

It was in 1961 that we returned to our home in the San Francisco Bay Area. I remember that there was an issue when Mom and Dad tried to register me in school following our return. The officials didn’t quite know what grade to place me in. When all was said and done, I skipped the second grade and was placed in the third grade because the Japanese school had me so far ahead of what was being taught here. From that point on, I would be the youngest person in my class throughout my senior year in high school. I will always believe that was to my detriment.

This is just the beginning of the most incredible story I know which I will be sharing the rest of, right here in this series of blogs.